A Bloody Fairytale
by Absentia
Summary: A first-person recollection. Oneshot. No names, so you get to figure out who is who. It's a slightly stream-of-consciousness fic with a half-assed plot. R&R. Thanks..


Disclaimer: I don't own Cowboy Bebop or anything else obscurely referenced herein, so don't sue. I do, however, own THIS *points down* obscure little fic and the words that I wrote. So nyah. XP Read and review, please!

A Bloody Fairytale

How ridiculous.

They killed each other, because of her. They _hated_ each other, because of her. They destroyed so many lives, changed everything. Because of _her_. All because of a sordid love story. How… soap opera. A macabre Romeo and Juliet, only this rendition sported two Romeos.

Who was I? I aspired to be Juliet's understudy, for the sake of one Romeo. In a backwards way, I suppose I was Rosaline. Rosaline never even had a line. Or a scene, for that matter; not even a cameo appearance. Just a fleeting name. I am synonymous with Rosaline.

There was a Mercutio of sorts, but he lived. That was a rather twisted portrayal, however. But then there were all these… other characters. Rosaline had lines, scenes, a role close to Romeo's. But she was still only a name. Everything got so far off plot.

Alright, enough with the Shakespeare bullshit. I always hated that guy. All those thees and thous.

He was such a stupid, stupid man. He always was _so_ certain that he was simply living in a bad dream, because _she_ told him so. I always thought that strange, that such a man could so willingly bury himself in the delusion that his waking moments were just a nightmare. He was so here, so now, so solid, yet out of reach. And when he fought, he was the devil. It frightened me, how alike he and the other Romeo were, sometimes.

But only that other one truly frightened me. Terrified me. Paralyzed my lungs and limbs in a gaping, horrified state of panic, just by one glacial, dead-eyed glance. No, my Romeo never frightened me. Thrilled me, hurt me, made me so angry I could kill him and so self-loathing I could kill myself.

Ha. _My_ Romeo. Oh no, don't mistake my hopeless romanticism for anything other than that. That man was never mine. Wishing on every star spangled across the backdrop of that black void of a galaxy couldn't make him or any part of that unfathomable man mine; I ought to know, I certainly tried. And I failed every time. Don't believe anything those idealistic jerks tell you; dreams and wishes never come true, and memories do not last forever.

I should know.

The crux of it all, the pivotal point- for some intangible reason probably dreamt up by whatever sadistic powers-that-be that govern Fate and Destiny- seemed to be three years ago, when I woke up and came to be Myself and lost that other Me. When two best friends as close as brothers learned the meaning of betrayal in the form of a beautiful, horrible, mysterious blonde with sad blue eyes. When one strong, sensible man lost the only woman who had ever taught his heart to love. When a crazy, innocent, miraculous child lost track of her father and he of her. When an annoying mutt became a genius.

That was when it all started, and where it all ended. Life was a meaningless explosion of random chaos, lacking in direction, after that, always running, chasing, laughing, crying, smiling on the outside and dying on the inside, question after question followed by a riddle and dancing around an unattainable meaning.

Four people who had nothing in common besides the metal hulls that housed us were thrown together to clash and spark and create a cataclysmic friction that would bring this impersonal and surreal world of neon, nylon, blood, sweat and gunsmoke down around our ears.

The girl was a wayward ray of sunshine that had wandered too far into our darkness, carelessly, audaciously, naively illuminating secrets and terrible things that should have remained shrouded deep in the shadows. A force as random and unpredictable as lightning, with after affects just as marking and memorable, she was ponderous and curious and unstoppable, unrestrained joy and light and wonder, brightening a million moonless nights or starless skies with blinding, searing, scathingly limitless intensity.

The man was solid, a rock, grounded so far down, he put down roots with every step, and in every soul he touched. His features were harsh and stern, but he was dependable, a kind heart to the weary travelers who saw more than they ever wanted, but less than those dauntless blue orbs had fathomed, and his stolid presence was a comfort and reminder that there was still something that resembled sanity out there. He shone like a lighthouse, a beacon of stark and all-revealing clarity in the hysteria of the storm. But Heaven and Hell forbid you forgot he was more than that. His large, stocky frame and gruff voice made you think of him as a stationary man who spent all his days whiling away the hours in reminiscence, while he was not at all stationary, nor old, nor lumbering. He was tenacious and strong and fierce; he was balance.

I was the fire, the black, rash flame that destroyed and entranced and burned and dwindled, smoking and intrinsic, parasitic in my need, in my lust to take, to use, to deplete, and move on; to never be captured or held, never be extinguished. I would devour and enchant with burning eyes and grinning lips, my silver tongue a liquid fire spinning what wanted to be heard with a siren's whisper; I roared and crackled and threw sparks in anger, in insolence. Alone, in the dark, in the cold, I sputtered and flickered, threatening to be snuffed out, but I lingered still, a glowing ember that caught its prey to become stronger, to become invulnerable, to never need again. The company ne'er-do-well, I messed up the Zen of their lives, creating a miasmic confusion, because I was woman, I was a fiery entity and I refused to be still, and I wanted trouble. I burned for what I should not, could not have, consuming myself in my need for him. I had not wanted to need, only desired to be needed. But I needed him and he could do without me. He loved his darkness, his illusory dreaming and clung to it passionately, as passionately as I burned to wake him up, to be real to him.

That man was water, flowing along smoothly or crashing violently, running hot or cold but never warm. He would tease and grin or grunt and growl, lighthearted or depressing; a wondrous breathtaking river or a lashing, powerful, heart stilling, storm-tossed sea. His depths were incomprehensible and his past unreachable, a mystery, an enigma, he drove you crazy and made you think. A ripple on the clear and convoluted conundrum that was his surface bespoke nothing of the tumultuous tempest that raged and brewed and thrashed restlessly underneath the calm. You couldn't hold him to one place, couldn't fix that man to any location, couldn't keep him imprisoned if he so deigned to be free. He drowned me and consumed me, slipped between my fingers and away from me forever, leaving me feeling stranded and lost and cold and forsaken on a shore that was far too dry.

Ha! He never woke up, but I did, my eyes slipping open just to catch him in the dying, fading, disintegrating blaze of glory, I woke up in time to weep and mourn his passing and curse myself for showing that the flame burned blue and violet in the center, that I was not all scorching crimson and ocher. But he went out and knew what I had striven to conceal, and he threw it away, scattered the epitome of Me to the four winds without a thought for what would happen, how it would affect me, only thoughts of his despairing failure to recapture his wild, taunting love who left without him, and of his single-minded compulsion to shed the blood of his once-comrade, for the other Romeo's blood to coat his hands and paint his face in regretful, redeeming scarlet.

And that's exactly how he did it, and I wonder that, when he accomplished it, if he felt remorse for foolishly squandering his days pining away over a creature who rejected his love in favor of fear, pushed aside his protection in order to choose self-preservation, if he mourned the slaughter of one who had once shared his company and his companionship, who had been a brother to his soul, if he lamented breaking my heart and doing a rain dance on the pieces just to show me how fragile I was, to sneer at my phantasm of being indomitable. But somehow, I doubt it. He probably smiled up at Heaven, satisfied that he was going out with a bang, and noticed for the first time that the sky was blue.

Love is so stupid.

I should know.


End file.
